


Merry in Death as Well in Life

by MundaneSalad



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I worked hard on the jokes in this ok, It's the encounter with the jester, One Shot, Origin Story, brief mentioning of daedra worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneSalad/pseuds/MundaneSalad
Summary: Cicero was allowed one final contract before becoming the Keeper. Rasha assigned to him an especially enigmatic hit: kill the jester.





	Merry in Death as Well in Life

The thing to know about contracts is that, with few exception, they are accepted with no questions asked.  While it is not written within the Five Tenets to do so, it is an unspoken formality that is honored by all Dark Brothers and Sisters.  For the commoner, to go through the rite of collecting human remains for the Black Sacrament is the signature on the contract. They have read the terms and they have accepted.  However, in the days since the Listener has expired, the Night Mother has withheld any formal assignments. In her absence, the Dark Brotherhood has resorted to blasphemous unofficial business.  To order an assassination, one merely needs to know which whispers to follow and which shadows to summon.

A name is spoken.  A hand is shaken. Blood is spilled.  The payment can be picked up at the dead drop.  

_Oh to have fallen from grace and reverted into simply petty hitmen!_  

It is unknown if proceeding in such a way will shame the Night Mother, or perhaps invoke the wrath of the great Sithis himself.  What can be known is that life must go on regardless, and the Cheydinhal Sanctuary is in dire need of food.

 As the contracts dwindled and the cupboards grew bare, the Speaker Rasha found himself in a deep conundrum.

_Perhaps we have upset the Night Mother in some way,_ he pondered to himself one night, stroking his whiskers.

_Have we neglected her, and in turn, she is neglecting us?_  

He reviewed the Tenets, scouring the history of the Dark Brotherhood. Part of the Listener’s duty was to physically protect her. The Keeper. To Keep Her Happy. Now that the Listener is gone, nobody had known what to do with her body.  

He reported his discovery to his brothers the next morning. After an unceremonious 3 to 1 voting, the role of Keeper was delegated to an impish Imperial by the name of Cicero. He voted against himself but couldn't provide an adequate argument why he shouldn't be Keeper, beyond the enjoyment of killing.

After all, it _is_ a privilege to serve the Night Mother directly.

Cicero was allowed one final contract before retiring from the field. Rasha assigned to him an especially enigmatic hit; A traveling theater would be passing through the Jerall Mountains in two days time, on the way back to port for their home province. The troupe will be taking up residence at the Jerall View Inn. Kill the jester.

One target. No bonuses. It would be an uneventful finale to his career as an assassin, but a finale nonetheless.

He kneeled before the Night Mother. Her coffin, while closed, had a remarkable resemblance to an Iron Maiden. The metal that shrouded her was lighter than steel, perhaps an ancient type of flawed Mithril, as the scaly patina that encased it was a deep slate. He took great care in prying open the doors, revealing the great patron for his entire existence. The Night Mother’s mummified body hung in the portable tomb. Her corpse smelled faintly of formaldehyde and lavender.  Her wrinkled hide gave more indication to an elderly woman, though in reality she only had a few years on him when she died. The Night Mother encompassed more than just an outdated method of torture or the embalmed body of a God’s beloved. She was her own maiden, mother, and crone.

He whispered to her a prayer, but he did not know what to pray for.

If anything were to go wrong on the mission, he would be graciously welcomed by Sithis in his chaotic domain. He didn't have anything in mind for her, for he was still new at this. He just felt like the thing to do. Once the contract was completed, he would be all hers.

***

Bruma isn't a particularly difficult journey on horseback, nor was tracking down the troupe. The actors left breadcrumbs of colorful flyers advertising their show on practically every tree in Northeastern Cyrodiil. Their last stop was a grand finale in its own sense, too. The variety show would last two nights in the county hall amphitheater before packing up and returning to Morrowind. They had not known they unintentionally cornered themselves. While the wagon was nowhere in sight upon entering the town, it wouldn't be hard to deduce the basic comings and goings of the company. The only inn in town willing to cater to a dozen players was the Jerall View; Which seemed to keep the locals happy as long as they were lodged far away from the beloved dive of the Tap and Tack.

As for now, the sun was just beginning to skim the mountains, the evening sunlight fading from yellow to orange. The actors would surely be preparing for tonight's event, and Cicero was not going to miss it for anything, for he too was in costume, under the guise of a commoner. Signs and streamers decorated the county hall. Townsfolk of all sorts were buzzing around the entrance. Merchants, families, and nobles all milling in together. At least one tavernkeep had seized the opportunity to sell pints of ale outside the amphitheater. At his turn, Cicero wordlessly slipped a coin to a stagehand guarding the door before slinking off to take a seat in the back row.  
The set was surprisingly put together. The backdrop was a meticulously painted forest scene, framed by cloud like trees and a lush landscape of fantastic plants. Ferns swirled among the forest floor in coy but hypnotic whorls. The left side of the stage featured the facade of a cottage with an elaborate wooden front door. Vines snaked up the faux stone finishing as if this shack had always been there.

The theater lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. From the cabin appeared a figure, who cast a spell of light above the stage, illuminating only himself. He was a Dunmer man dressed in a cream-colored jester’s tunic adorned with purple silken butterflies. While he had no makeup typical of his character type, he wore a comically long hat loosely on his head, which ended in a purple pom-pom. He held a tambourine affixed with many colorful ribbons, which he trilled confidently.

“Good evening, my distinguished guests,” the jester announced. His voice was more dignified than comical. “We are here to share stories and song, laughter and knowledge. From our words you may learn an important lesson about yourself, or your neighbor, or all of Tamriel. Or maybe not! Where’s the fun in certainty? Who am I? I am not important. But I am here to welcome you all to the Revue of the Rapturous!”

The jester cast a second, larger light spell, which illuminated the whole stage, revealing a pair of actors in exaggerated masks behind him and a trio of bards to the side of the stage. The jester shook the tambourine once again, cuing the bards to begin a jaunty tune. As he joined the musicians, he introduced the first skit.

“My dearest friends, I present to you ‘Stanley, the Talking Grapefruit’!”

***

Bruma had long since gone to bed. Whether last call had happened yet, Cicero did not know, nor would he be around long enough to find out.  When the show was finished, the actors had returned to their wagon to transform themselves back into regular folks. The set was dismantled as well.  Several of the players had banded together to have a few celebratory pints while others retired to the inn to squeeze out one last decent night’s rest before the journey back home.  

For hours Cicero lingered just out of sight, waiting long after the streetlamps had been lit. He had disposed of the commonor’s garb, returning once more to his treasured black armor. A cowl shrouded his head, both to obscure his identity and also to remind him to stay silent. Rasha would often remind him in particular that he is not the kind of person who is meant to make intimidating threats.  

All he heard was the wind in the snow. The Jerall View Inn had also shut its doors for the evening, the owners and occupants sound in their beds. The only indication of wakefulness in this side of town was a single oil lamp shining from the second story window of the inn.

Cicero silently climbed up onto the awning, using the stone masonry of the inn itself for footholds. Perched outside the window, he carefully peered inward. Sure enough, this was his target’s room. The jester had all but retired for the evening; the only thing seemingly different from his stage persona was that his cap had been tossed onto the bed. He was practicing handstands, rocking back and forth with his balance. He’d contort himself forwards before tumbling into a sitting position. The fool would then return to a headstand before pushing upwards on himself and trying again. While experienced in many other entertaining pursuits, acrobatics clearly wasn't his strong suit.  

The assassin watched and drew his blade, a thin, silver dirk. He’d have to time his movements just right, for a murder like this is a dance in itself, albeit only the leader is aware of the choreography. When the jester wasn't looking, he was going to press a knife to his back, grab him by the ankle, and throw him down, letting gravity do the rest.  Whatever screams he’d make would die in his throat as the blade would sever his windpipe. Cicero’s escape would be as easy as his entrance, where he’d duck out the window, liberate his horse, and ride off into the snowy woods. Only then would he be ready to hang up his shroud and become the Keeper. And this was a kill he wished to savor for a long, long time.

When the jester fell into a somersault, Cicero quickly slid the dagger between the window and the pane and unlatched it from the inside. The  fool rolled back up onto his head, back turned. As quietly as a shadow, Cicero slipped through the window and crossed the room. He positioned himself beneath the jester, readying his blade. He reached up, fingers grazing the hem of the target’s trousers-

-Who then tumbled backwards into Cicero.

Alarmed, he thrust the dirk up regardless, stabbing blindly under the weight of the fool. The jester yelped in pain, scrambling away from his assailant. Cicero withdrew his bloodied blade, finally parsing the situation. Instead of impaling the jester’s lungs cleanly, his dagger had sunk into the lower back, slashing through the torso instead. This wasn't the swift death he planned, but a slow, tortured bleed out. He’s have to be there to make sure the body goes cold.

The fool’s tunic bloomed red. Blood dripped from his clothing, forming rivers onto the floor. He had propped himself up against the wall, hopelessly clutching the gash in this belly. His whimpering breaths were tearful and pained.

Cicero tried to fight his own tears welling up in his eyes.  All his years with the Brotherhood, all of those weary souls delivered to Sithis, any impression he made as an assassin had been tarnished by this botched final hit.  He had gone for a difficult but beautiful kill when he should have stuck to something simpler and safer. To bite off more than he could chew, even as a seasoned assassin, it was an amateur’s mistake.  He was going to be the Keeper forever no doubt. Yes, it is a high honor to serve Her, the Night Mother, but let’s face it - all Cicero wanted to do was kill. He yearned for the masterful, world changing contracts.  All of his siblings would gush about their killing a noble or taking down an entire cult from the inside or some other legendary deed. A majority of these stories had been told by Garnag, for he was favored by Rasha.  As an outsider to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, Cicero had always been passed up on any quality hits. No matter what he did to try to get on his good side, Rasha always found him irritating, especially in the way that he talks.  Rasha had surely assigned him to Keeper to finally get him out of the way. Any opportunity to gain the Speaker’s respect was gone now, as the jester slowly bled out onto the floor. Cicero had nothing more to look forward to then serving as the chamberlain to a mummified corpse in a dark hole for what was surely going to be the rest of his life.  

And the last job he had to savor for all that time would be a sour, botched kill.

He sunk to his knees and wept.

The jester’s sobs slowly morphed into low, pained chuckles. He coughed hoarsely and spoke.

“I’m going to take a _stab_ at it and assume someone wanted me dead?”

Cicero looked up slowly, stunned.  He tried to wipe away his tears, but instead it just pooled uncomfortably against his cowl.  The fool, now drenched in his own fluids, simply grinned.

“Looking to _cut back_ on fooling around, eh?” Is the jester mocking him now?  

“E-excuse me?” Cicero whispered, his voice cracking.  The jester giggled once more.

“Considering you haven’t truly killed me yet, you were looking to hear some more of my world famous stories?”  He suggested coyly. “I’ll tell you this now, ‘ _knife_ you meet you’ isn’t a very friendly way of saying ‘hello’.”  
A lump formed in Cicero’s throat.

“What are you doing?” He asked a little too shrilly.

The fool let out a whoop of laughter at his assailant’s squeaky voice before wincing and clutching his open wound.

“You look like a guy who could use some people skills.  Ditch the ‘sneaky assassin’ look, lighten up a bit. You’re not intimidating, especially if you sound like that.”

“Shut up,” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“ _‘Shut up’_ says the assailant who bursts into my room, has the _sheer audacity_ to introduce my innards to a dagger, and then bursts into tears.  Pretty brave of you to wear your heart on your sleeve like that for your victims.  Are you sure this is the best line of work for you?”

Cicero clutched the hilt of his dirk and lunged at the jester, grabbing him by the lapel.  His victim yelped in pain, but couldn’t stop smiling.

“Are you playing some sort of cruel joke?” he accused sharply.

“Cruelty in this case is subjective, as comedy is achieved after a tragedy is given time.  I have decided to make this tragedy a comedy now, as I am set to expire shortly thanks to your actions,”  The jester paused to cough up blood. “I’d prefer it you honor my last wishes and let me be as scathing as possible, my dear.”

Cicero, at a loss for words, simply sheathed his dagger and threw the fool back to the floor.  The jester wheezed upon impact, sputtering more blood across the already gruesome floor.

“You know you’re being _awfully_ ** _noisy_** for one of those Dark Brotherhood folks,” The jester said far too loudly for comfort. “Aren’t you meant to be stealthy?”

Cicero seized his knife once again out of panic.  The fool’s chortle was even more boisterous this time.

“Calm down, Assassin, my Lord’s not here to tear you a new one.  At least not yet.”

He forced himself to relax.  It didn’t work.

“You _are_ Dark Brotherhood, right?”

Cicero said nothing.

“Ah-ha! Who sent you? Oh! Let me guess! Was it Bardic Barney? Perhaps Lopital the Lovely? She was always jealous that I could play the tambourine better than her.” The jester smiled widely, expecting an answer.  His grin bared an unsettling amount of teeth.

“I do not know,” said Cicero in the most serious voice he could manage. “If you are trying to appease to my good will: don’t.  You are not getting out of this alive, Jester. I am required to deliver you to Sithis, and I am going to do just that.” He kept his dagger tight in his hand.  His knuckles had gone white but his face was blushing bright red.

The fool was giggling, but it was a honking, sinister chortle.  The color was draining from his face as it joined the rest of his blood on the floor.  These were his last moments.

“Oh, my dear, I am not meant to perform before your God,” the jester said blithely.  “I have other plans.”

And with the last of his energy he let out a blood-curdling shriek.  

Muffled astonishment sounded through the thin walls of the inn.  At least one sleepy actor had fallen out of bed at the sudden scream.  Several people were rushing down the hall, each panicked footstep louder than the last.

“You said your lord wasn’t here!” Cicero screeched, drawing his blade with the intent to finally ending this joker’s life once and for all.  There was a frantic knock at the door.

“Donvyn? Donvyn are you alright?” Called a woman’s voice from the hallway.

“I’m in a theater troupe, you really think we’d have someone as stuffy as some feudal noble with us at all times?  It’s you who is the fool here, Mr. Assassin!” The jesters words slurred together. As he sank further and further onto the floor, the jester closed his eyes and smiled.

“I am awaited by my Lord in the Shivering Isles. Oh I do hope you visit, sometime.”

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, the working title for this was "Oh honey this is gonna be cursed."  
> Second of all, if you had told me a year ago I'd be writing a fic about a murder-happy clown from Skyrim (a game I still have not played) I would have probably punched you.


End file.
